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DustDoubting, or woeful, or just bored, perhaps,she sits in the overheated chapel,end of the pew, by the window,staring at the ochre splash of sunlightagainst the communion railing,and beyond it the dark cornerobscured in shadow behind the ray of light.The voices drone onbut what she hears is the echoesof all those prayers she has saidand psalms she has recited,maybe to no avail, she thinks,those hopeful words she now doubtsbut still hears echoing like shadowsbehind the light of all her thoughts.A dust mote drifts out of the black into the light,and she stares at it: like her, just drifting,without ground, without purpose,without flock or herd or home.She sort of loves it for that—and then a too-warm ray of sun,an ocean wave of light washes over herto behold that like itshe is held, in light, radiant,and seen,suchloveddust.

Deep Blessings,Pastor Steve__________________Steve Garnaas-HolmesUnfolding